


Sleep

by Dinofly



Category: The Collector (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dinofly/pseuds/Dinofly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgan can't sleep...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep

Sleep, it was the one thing he neither really needed nor enjoyed for the last 650 years. Once, all his dreams had been filled with Kathrina but now, since he'd gotten his new deal it was only nameless faces - a big blur of empty faces and screaming souls.

The Devil had told him, that he was special, unique, that he was intrigued by him. Was he? Morgan did not feel special in the beginning. But later, when the Devil told him what he had done, or to be clearer, not done, he knew the Devil was telling the truth. He was special. No one had ever killed so many people as he had.

And for what?  
Had he known, had he really understood the price for his happiness with Kathrina, would he have chosen Kathrina over finding the cure for the plague? Would he?

During his sleepless nights, he preferred to think about Kathrina and the time of pain and happiness he'd had with her then, rather than about all the people whose deaths he'd caused by not curing them.

The Devil had always provided for him. He'd always had enough money, as much as he could possibly need. He had a place to stay, even if he bitched about it, he was actually quite content.

But was he? Could he really say that?  
He was looked after, never had to fend for himself.  
The Devil had told him that it was because he wanted him not to be distracted from the collecting business, but was that the truth?

Wasn't that just another lie?  
Because when he did not sleep, did not have anything else to think about, the only thing he could think about was Kathrina and the dead.

Books were a welcomed distraction, but there were only so many books you could read and there are only so many books that existed. Before there was internet, he had read all books in the Vancouver library and before that, in Los Alamos, and before that… Not that he did not always have books, that the Devil supplied, but his view on things was a little… one sided.

In time, he had become exactly what Devil told him he was: a cold blooded killer. After Kathrina had died and he had became a collector, he no longer felt anything.

But it was not altogether true; he did feel, he just wished that he did not.  
These feelings were stirred every time he'd gotten a name from the Devil, every time he'd met someone who had sold his soul to change something and nothing had really changed. In time, he accepted his role and just got around as a loyal servant on his assignments.

When has it happened, that he was forbidden to leave the city?  
Even when he tried, there was this wall he could not cross over. The Devil wanted him in one city, in one place, not free. Even though he had a whole city as playground, he was a prisoner.

It had taken him almost 650 years to figure out what the Devil was doing to him, or with him to be precise. He was as a kept mistress, a whore for the Devil. After what had happened to him and Kathrina, the Devil had told him, he was going to experiment with love and romance. Was this what he'd been up to the whole time?

The places to stay, the money, the books that must've cost a fortune when he gave them to him the first time, the city's limits. He'd been kept, like a concubine in a harem.

Laying in his bed, not really looking at anything, Morgan wished, that for a few hours, there would no nightmares to plague him, no memories, just a few hours of peace.

But that was too much to ask for, wasn't it?

In the next second, he felt a weight dropping on the old, wide bed beside him.

What surprised him was not that he's found the Devil next to him. He knew that the Devil could read his thoughts and was listening to them all the time. What surprised him was that he had the same appearance as when they met for the first time, even the frock and hood covering his head. For Morgan, the Devil always had this face. He'd showed him this countenance for over 10 years, even in his dreams as he gave him the visions in the monastery or any of his many visits during these 10 years. It had been a shock, at first, when he'd begun to change bodies, but later he'd come to accept it. Or strictly speaking, his mind had accepted it. In his heart, though, he had the Devil still filed under that one face with its dark beard, piercing eyes full of sick humor and deep rumbling voice.

The Devil’s lips curled into a grin that Morgan new very well, but there was something in those dark eyes that was new.  
Now there was Devil's mouth on his ear, hot breath and the voice that was always so deep it resonated in his bones purred into his ear, "Took you long enough to figure it out, my sweet boy."  
The strong body, that could break him in one move, presses onto his and he feels, through his shirt and pants, that the Devil does not have any inner garments under the frock.

"I told you, you intrigued me from the beginning."  
And then there are lips on his mouth that are taking the breath away, hands under his shirt, nails scratching over his sensitive flesh until they draw blood. Every scratch and bite burns with the fires of hell and the hands and lips give pain and pleasure that is just not enough to bring him death.

The last time he'd been with a man was during his youth in the monastery. But even that is nothing compared to his time with the Devil now.

All his memories and desires are melted by the Devil's fire as he finally becomes the toy he always was. He is fighting, but always loosing. Winning, only to make things worse.

After an eternal moment everything goes dark and he slips to a blessed sleep. Sleep without dreams or nightmares, only restful sleep.

The Devil makes his mark on his sweat covered forehead and whispers quietly  
"Rest, my dear boy."

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years ago and found it recently again.  
> As I am not a native English speaker, this work was Beta'd by a dear friend of mine and turned out that much better because of it.  
> Feedback is welcomed.


End file.
